


Whatever Remains

by commonmalapropisms



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sherlock (TV) Fusion, Hopefully interesting cases, Humor, M/M, Murder, set in america because I’m american
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25854391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commonmalapropisms/pseuds/commonmalapropisms
Summary: Frank Iero finds that there isn’t much to live for after a shot through the shoulder leaves him discharged from the army. When he’s sent home with a pat on the back and a gimp leg (that he already knows is psychosomatic, thanks), he finds a new pastime: daring himself to pull the trigger that sends a bullet flying into his throat.Then he meets Gerard Way, possible lunatic and definite dick, and life couldn’t be more interesting.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Whatever Remains

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Sherlock fusion, since I haven’t seen it done here. A definite WIP because I have absolutely no idea where this is going. I really thought I would never write a fanfiction, but here we are, with me eating my own words (thoughts?).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it, the first chapter.

Frank realizes he’s conscious at about the same time that he notices the screaming, and then that it’s his own. With images of blood and sand flashing before him, he takes in a shaky breath. _Get it together, Iero_ , he tells himself.

They never leave Frank alone during sleep, these memories. He needs something to bring him back to here and now, to the dull, run down little motel room he’s been staying in. He also kind of needs the toilet.

When he tries to stand, he nearly collapses.

The damn leg’s been acting up again. It’s one of the more puzzling aspects of his new and most certainly not improved self. Frank knows that the problems with it are completely in his own head. His leg, however, doesn’t seem to be getting the memo. He sighs and rubs at the cramping thigh muscle.

During attempt two, he’s more successful as he remembers to grab his cane. To him, it’s only an ugly hospital issued reminder that he isn’t the same Frank Iero that deployed and never will be again. 

His uneven pace is accompanied by a thump every other step once he reaches the linoleum floored bathroom. He flicks on the light and squints against the sudden shock of harsh brightness. After an orgasmic piss he washes his hands and leaves the tap running so he can cup them underneath for a drink.

Looking in the mirror at his battle shorn hair, still within army regulation, Frank remembers the time he gave himself a mohawk in his mom’s bathroom. She’d been pissed; first at the sight of _him_ , and then at his revelation that the sink was clogged.

He turns the light off and limps into the main area, glancing at the nightstand where a gun (near identical to his old service pistol) resides. This is definitely one of those days, one of the days where he sits with the barrel of his gun perched on his tongue, daring himself to pull the trigger.

_First order of business is to find something for breakfast, then I can entertain life ending decisions_ , he thinks grimly.

The weak beams of light coming through the blinds remind him that the rest of the world still exists and he supposes that it wouldn’t hurt to go out in it. That of course makes him wonder when the last time was that he _did._

It’s settled then.

-

After stopping for a mediocre breakfast bagel, Frank finds himself stamping down the pavement of some park he’s never been in because it’s a disgustingly nice day out. He halts when he hears a vaguely familiar voice, male, asking if he’s Frank Iero. 

He affirms this and turns to get a look at the man, who continues, “Stump, Patrick Stump. We went to med school together?”

“Hey,” Frank says with recognition, “It’s good to see you.” He shakes the proffered hand with a smile. Stump had always been a good guy to have around, managing to naturally radiate the kindness that characterizes doctors without losing his sarcastic edge. Frank wonders how he forgot about him.

“The last I heard you were overseas, getting shot at. What happened?” Stump asks.

Frank sardonically answers, “I got shot.”

Stump makes a sympathetic noise and then asks to catch up over a coffee.

Well, he doesn’t have anything else to do.

-

Frank sits (or more like slumps, with his leg and all) next to Stump on one of the park benches, coffee in hand. For a few minutes they just sit and nurse their drinks. Frank thinks about how this is his life now, bad coffee and existentialism.

Stump breaks the silence with, “So where have you been staying since you got back?”

“Just some shitty no-name motel on the edge of the city. It’s all I can afford, really,” Frank replies. He takes a sip of his coffee and pulls a face.

“What about a roommate? You could split the rent.”

“Who would want _me_ as a roommate?”

Stump, after registering what Frank just said, says with some amusement, “You know, you’re the second person I’ve heard that from today.”

Interesting.

“And who was the first?”

-

The first as it turns out, works at the same hospital where Frank trained during school and where Stump works now. Frank really hopes the person isn’t some rowdy college kid. He’s too old for a roommate who’s going to be turning up at the ass crack of dawn missing their pants. 

As they walk into the lobby, Stump briefs him on the potential roommate he’s meeting. It conveniently doesn’t clear up a thing. 

While they’re waiting for an elevator to arrive Frank says, “So this guy doesn’t work  for  the hospital, but works at it, and isn’t a med student or a doctor at all?” He can’t think of any other reason for being there. 

“Yeah, pretty much. Hell, I  still  don’t really know what he does and I see him once a week. The hospital just lets him use their resources  to do whatever it is.”

They step onto the elevator that’s just arrived and Stump pushes the button for the basement level. Frank remembers the floor being for the morgue and the chemical labs. He wonders which the mystery roommate uses.

“Both,” says Stump with raised eyebrows, reading Frank’s mind.

As they step off, Frank takes in the shiny, state of the art medical equipment on this floor and lets out a whistle.

“Bit different from my day.”

“Well, we  have  made some changes since the sixties,” Stump jabs playfully.

“Shut up, you trained at the same time I did old man.”

They’ve reached the end of the hallway and Stump points Frank to the lab on the right hand side.

“He’s through here. Ladies first, Iero.”

Frank flips him off but nonetheless pushes the door open. As he walks in and breathes the familiar scent of hospital grade disinfectant, he smiles. 

He’s pulled out of his reverie when the man they were just discussing asks in a high, nasally tone “Patrick, can I borrow your phone? Mine doesn’t get service down here. You know, with the concrete.”

Frank tries to get a look at the guy to find that most of his face is obscured by the microscope he’s buried it in and the rest by long (greasy) strands of (dyed) black hair.

“Why not use the landline?” asks Stump.

“I prefer to text.”

“Uh, sorry, I don’t have mine on me,” Stump replies. Being the person he is, he seems genuinely apologetic about this.

“Here, use mine,” Frank finds himself offering.

The phone changes hands without the man moving his head an inch away from the eyepiece, which Frank has to say, is pretty impressive. It’s also frustrating because Frank was hoping he would look up from there long enough to see his face properly.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man asks suddenly.

Frank freezes. “What?”

“I said ‘Afghanistan or Iraq’, which is it?” He finally looks at Frank, who rakes his eyes over the odd face. He’s sort of unconventionally handsome, Frank supposes, if you were into that.

“Afghanistan,” he says after a beat, “but how did you know?”

It seems the man doesn’t hear Frank’s question though, his attention turned to the woman who’s just walked in. She holds herself in a way that tells Frank all he needs to know about her self esteem. It saddens him a bit, seeing how she’s a pretty girl.

“Ah, thanks for the coffee, Lindsey. What happened to that lipstick you were wearing?”

The woman, apparently named Lindsey reddens and says “It just wasn’t working for me.”

“I think it worked a lot better for you. Your lips are too pale now.”

Lindsey, seemingly at a loss for words, just squeaks out an okay and hurries out of the room. This leaves the man to turn his attention back to Frank. Sharp hazel eyes bore into him.

“How do you feel about the guitar?” He asks Frank.

“Uh, depends on how it’s played. I’m not some twenty year old punk who’s going to appreciate loud and abrasive anymore.”

“That’s fine then. It’s just, I play guitar when I’m thinking, and sometimes I don’t talk for days or don’t shut up for days. Would that bother you? I think potential roommates should know the worst about each other up front.”

Frank turns to Stump and asks accusingly, “Did you tell him about me?”

“Nope.” Stump smirks.

“Then who the hell said anything about roommates?”

“I did. I told Patrick about my roommate plight and here he brings an old friend of his, a soldier fresh out of Afghanistan.”

“How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?” 

The guy blows Frank off a second time. “I’ve found nice little apartment in central Belleville, together we should be able to make rent. You can meet me there at seven tomorrow evening. Anyway, I have to go, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

Frank ignores that last bit for now and says testily, “Is that it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve only just met you and we’re going to look at an apartment?”

“Problem?” It seems the man genuinely doesn’t see the flaws in this plan.

“You could be a serial killer for all I know, I _don’t_ know where we’re meeting, which may just be a logistical issue, and I don’t even know your name.”

The man inhales sharply and then starts speaking double time.

“I know you’re an army doctor invalidated out of Afghanistan, but not because of your leg. I know you used to play guitar but don’t now. I just needed to know whether the reason you stopped was important not, didn’t want you to go all... wistful on me when  I  played. I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic- she’s right, by the way- I see things, and they’re quite enough to be going on with, wouldn’t you say?” He hands back the phone, which had been caught up in wild gesticulation as he spat all this out.

Frank stands, awed into silence, as the man continues.

“The name’s Gerard Way, and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon.”

With that, he’s out the door.

“Yeah, he’s always like that. Better get used to it,” Stump supplies helpfully.

—

Later that evening, Frank enters a search into Google for one ‘Gerard Way’. He’ll find later that meeting the man was the best and worst thing to ever happen to him.


End file.
